Transcribed by "noah" on The Silver Jews Bulletin Board

http://disc.server.com/indices/18043.html
published in the May 2004 issue of JANE magazine
Lady In Gunsmoke by David Berman
GENE WAS at his desk, staring out the window at an Afroed unicyclist pedaling up and down
the lanes of the town graveyard. He pulled the blinds shut, returned his attention to the blank
piece of paper in front of him. It resembled the snow-packed window of a lonely North
Woods cabin.
No impulse was forthcoming.
He scanned the 1905 New York Herald headline he'd planned to use in his next story:
"Women Smoke on Way to Opera, Are Discovered Puffing Cigarettes When Electric Light
Beams into Their Carriages."
Again, nothing.
He addressed the pen and paper, the scissors, stapler, Scotch tape.
"Look, I want to be involved in whatever's going on here."
It had been 21 days since he'd been able to sit at his desk and compose the erotic science
fiction that paid his rent. Make that science fiction without the science. Instead of science,
shamless intercourse with vomit-fondling moon sluts. Distracted astronauts trying to find the
wet holes in a hair-packed, egg studded respirating wall.
Until the onset of writer's block, he'd been on a good time-machine run, predicated on the
notion that any nebbish in possession of such a machine would use it for only thing only.
Nailing history's finest tail. From Ice Age sex angels to presidential wives ("First Ladies'
Night" was considered a classic of the genre), if "What do men want?" was the question, then
"To inject a cock into a beehive hairdo" had been Gene's definitive answer.
It had been a bad run of rainy days. Last night, he'd lost a game of Risk to the Quaker couple
next door. She designed scented apparel-paprika wool suits, mixed-fruit blouses, evergreen
ascots. He called the Super Bowl "the big dance," capped his opinions with a wink and an
arch "That's the nature of the beast" that repulsed Gene. Not for the first time, Gene wished he
had the ability to discern a waster of time before it began.
Tonight he had to meet Jerry Cantrell, his agent, for drinks at The Bar Where Everyone Is
Called Carol. Jerry had eyes the color of fresh racquetballs and a personality powerful enough
for three of four people to share. Gene tried to avoid him, but was dragged down by his own
availability.
"Write well enough, for long enough, and you can live in Idaho or Montana. Haven't you
always wanted to be a writer who lives in Idaho or Montana?" Jerry was saying.
"You know I have," Gene said feebly.
"And an English child, how'd you like to have an English child? They're beautiful, aren't
they?"
"I guess so."
"You guess so? They're like miniature professors, for Christ's sake."
Gene glanced at expensive-looking raindrops clinging to the windowpane. It had been raining
for three weeks straight. In fact, 2002 was the rainiest year on record. Which was strange,
because it had barely rained at all in 2001. Gene wondered how rain knew what year it was.
Jerry was still talking. This guy holds a press conference just to say, No. I ask him, Why
are you defending that blind bastard? He just looks at me. It was like trying to explain
Maryland to a Chinaman.
The bar was packed with metropolitan secretaries and their suitors. A foursome of rich, young,
Iranian Depeche Mode fans sat close by. One was telling a joke. What do you call a person

who speaks Spanish, has an Italian last name, acts French, wants to be British and looks
German?
Jerry summoned the waitress.
The Iranians were laughing. Gene had been unable to hear the punch line through the cross
talk.
Carol, daring, Jerry prodded the waitress, what say we find a little place where the Roman
Empire is still falling?
Dont think so, Jerry. Its National Secretarys Day. Im closing tonight.
Well, then, another round?
Gene cut in. Ive got to get going.
Jerry eyed him sharply. Just the bill, Carol. He paused until she left. Musta notta hadda
lotta fun.
Its not that. Im expected at John Drinkwaters. Hes just back from a cruise.
That washed-up crackhead?
Gene shrugged.
Shrugging is a maddeningly irresponsible gesture, Jerry said.
Look, hes a friend. Hes quit smoking. Hes writing again.
He hasnt written a single childrens book since Herman the Butterfly and the Lambs of
Tomorrowburg. You think anyones going to forgive him for that shit he pulled on the podium
at the Caldecott Awards?
It was no big deal.
Excuse me? Its illegal for a citizen over 12 to wear a ski mask in public. And whos going to
forget his message to his little fans: In order to get back to my home planet, I have to be
murdered by young peope?
Im late. I have to go. Ill FedEx you the new things on Monday.
Cmon, call John, tell him you cant make it. Ill take you to AirCastle.
Cant.
Its the notte macchia di tutti notte macchia. The nightclub of nightclubs. Anyway, I could
use your expertise.
Why? Youve never had any trouble meeting women.
I know, but lately I feel overqualified in the singles environment. Like a Melville scholar in a
Long John Silvers. I need to get back to the bascis.
Gene pushed his chair back, stood up. Gotta go, Jerry.
Im worried about you, Gene. Youve never been this far over deadline.
Im just putting some finishing touches on them.
Remember, Gene, the best are always outnumbered.
Ill remember.
THE RAIN was coming down in long, clear ropes. The sort of weather that breaks things.
Johns place wasnt far enough for a taxi. Gene decided passive acceptance was the best
strategy and slid into a cab that had just unloaded.
Im just going four blocks.
No shame in that, buddy. This cab is like the in-between for people. Had a fare this morning,
pretty girl from the Middle East. Came over for med school. I said, You came halfway across
the world to a free country where you dont have to wear a veil just to be a surgeon and wear
a mask all day?
Gene paid his fare, jumped out, made a run for the awning. His footsteps made a galosh,
galosh, galosh sound, as if the water were trying to remind manking of something it had
forgotten long ago.
For a long time, John Drinkwater shared his apartment with a prostitute named Technique.
Her skin was the color of a shaved lab rat, and her North Jersey accent reminded gene of a

scorched warehouse. She made drug runs to 454th Street with Johns money, helped him
smoke whatever she brought back. Once theyd blown through the Herman the Butterfly
royalties, she moved on.
His suffering? Immense. He missed her burnt fingertips, the crumpled Kleenex that filled her
sleeping bag like pathological origami. Finally, a fan funded his passage on a drug-andalcohol-recovery cruise featuring Chicago blues around the clock.
John was on the phone when Gene walked in. Yes, I was inquiring about an organization for
tall men? Tall-men issuesokay, but in your adjust apparelI seethank you.
John hung up, walked to the window. Even if my parents had never met, I believe I still
would have existed somehow. Its a terrible feeling. He accidentally knocked over some tiny
bottles on the floor. What kind of club is this hot-sauce-of-the-month club anyway? You
never get to meet the other members.
He kicked the bottles, reached his elderly refrigerator, pulled out two large cans of beer.
The cruise not work out, John?
Cruise was great. He brightened. Gave me a chance to think about the bad times and how I
dont want any more of them. H extended his arm. Here, have a Japanese beer. It makes you
feel like building cars. He lifted his in a toast. Im celebrating 82 days of sobriety.
But youre almost to 90 days, Gene pleaded.
Eighty-two sounds longer. Anyway, thats over. Im in love, Gene. Very much in love, as
they say. Youre meeting her in 15 minutes.
Where?
Shes playing AirCastle tonight. Youve probably heard of her. Headliner on the blues cruise.
Blind Phyllis Morgan? The Detroit housewife blues singer? Golden Retriever Blues?
Gene shook his head.
Looks exactly like that lady in Gunsmoke. You know that lady in Gunsmoke?
Gene shook his head.
Cmon, you know that lady in Gunsmoke.
You always said women cant sing the blues.
My theory was that women couldnt understand the blues, because of their capacity for
childbirth. How it provides them with an evolutionary exit from any existential dead end. But
I wasnt taking into account barren or postmenopausal women. Divorce, bankruptcy, empty
nestall valid subjects for the blues.
Anyway, we were at the same table in the dining room. Its just like youve heard, the food
becomes meaningless. Flavored objects, really.
He paused to gulp some beer.
I was too intimidated to speak at first. I mean, its Blind Phyllis. But she must have smelled
my cigarette, because she asked for one. After she thanked me, I said, The only way to truly
thank me would be to switch to my brand.
Whered that come from?
Dont know. Terrible screwup. She must have thought I was a cigarette-company shill
looking for an endorsement, because she called over the entertainment coordinator to take her
back to her cabin.
I think she asked for a new seating assignment. The next night she was at a different table,
but there was an empty seat. I waited until the others left. Turns out shed raised her kids on
my books! Oh, Technique is dead to me now.
WHEN THEY arrived at AirCastle, the woman at the door looked them up and down. Her
face was frozen in the pose of someone who had just found mold on the thing she was about
to eat.
Sold out, gentlemen.
Were with Blind PhyllisJohn Drinkwater?

She scanned her list. Youre in.

The club was filled with dry ice. It was difficult to see. Gene heard his agents voice
somewhere behind him.
Gene?
Gene grabbed Johns hand, pulled him into a fog bank.
Jerrys here. I dont wanna see him.
Whats wrong?
Severe writers block.
Let me reacquaint you with some of gins most fantastic qualities, namely deep
inaccessibility.
He found a waitress, ordered a fifth of Tanquerary and asked the way to Phylliss table.
The blueswoman was sitting with a plain girl in Vermont attire whose straight, pot roastcolored hair looked nailed to her shoulders. A crisscross of introductions. Perianne London
was Blind Phylliss assistant.
Phyllis wore big sunglasses, a white blouse, beige slacks. Condominium camouflage. I hear
youre a vocalist, Gene, she said.
Before Gene could speak, John turned to Perianne and said, Gene was in the original Village
People. He was the psychoanalyst. This was before their first hit.
I didnt know that, Perianne said.
He had to resign. It was too hot doing those moves in a tweed jacket, John said.
He leaned over, whispered in Genes ear. I couldnt tell her you were a pornographer.
Perianne eyed them curiously.
John straightened up, smiled. So wheres your boyfriend, Perianne?
He left me, Mr. Drinkwater. He couldnt deal with me being on the road with Phyllis all the
time.
Well, maybe we can help you find someone new. What are you looking for in a man? I mean,
what qualities?
She giggled. He has to be a Christian, kind, someone who takes care of himself but is willing
to sacrifice for others. Has a good body.
Sounds like your talking about Jesus Christ on the cross. Too bad no one around here has a
time machine. John winked at Gene. Then his face went grave. He squinted, tried to make
out something in the dry ice.
Excuse me, folks. Mens room, he said, and took off.
Johns a verifiable dream come true, Phyllis said. My ex was a wall-puncher, a phonethrower. He murdered my 32 year old terrier.
What did your ex-husband do? Gene said.
He was CEO of a water company.
Conversation stalled. Wisps of fog crossed the table.
Looks like the soundmans set up another mic, Phyllis, Perianne said.
Wonderful. Youre going to be singing The Meaning of Our Suffering with me, Gene.
Were on as soon as the Just-Cant-Seem-to-Win Boys finish.
I really cant
The Meaning of Our Suffering it is. Should we go backstage and practice?
I better go find John. Excuse me.
He started cautiously through the thick fog, headed for the door.
Jerry Cantrell appeared suddenly before him.
Great place, huh? Jerry said. The girls all look like they were born on furniture. Theyre
biological magazines.
You seen John?
Actually, with all this fog, itd be a great place to murder an enemy. No one would find the
body till closing time.

Drinkwater? Gene ignored him. Seen him?

Saw his girlfriend.
You mean Phyllis?
His crack whore.
Technique?
Whatever. Listen, your deadline? My necks on the line over this shit.
Gene moved five feet to his left, was swallowed up by a bank of dry ice.
Jerry cursed and called his name.
Gene headed for the front door, bumping tables, drink carts, slow dancers, apologizing as he
went. An announcers voice came over the PA. People headed for the stage. Gene struggled
through strobes, smoke.
He heard Phyllis take the mic. Id like to invite my new friend Gene to come sing a song
with me.
Gene was pinned against the bar. The exit was somewhere to his left.
I want to dedicate this song to my beloved John, who just this morning asked for my hand in
marriage. I guess the thrill isnt gone after all.
The crowd went nuts.
Gene was feeling his way down the bar when Phyllis began to moan, Our suffering, our
suffering, what is the meaning of our suffering?
He neared the exit. The fog was thinning out. Two bouncers stood with their backs to the door.
Between them was the door girl, clipboard in hand. He could see John and Technique getting
into a cab across the street.
He waited for the bouncers to move. Nothing.
Pardon. Need to get by.
The door girl once-overed him. You on the list?
Ha-ha, funny. But I really have to go. He made a move for the door. A bouncer shoved him
back.
You on the list? the door girl said.
What are you talking about?
She looked past him. The bouncers parted, letting Jerry through.
Jerry, give me a hand here, Gene said. Jerry passed by, ignored him. As if he hadnt heard.
Gene appealed to the girl. Im with him, with Mr. Cantrell. Please make way.
Are you on the list? the door girl said.
Im already in the club. Thats the world, Gene said, pointing at the door. You cant hold
me here. This is completely unfair.
She made a motion. The bouncer started toward him. And fair had nothing to do with it.